


No Greater Love

by thesentimentalist



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Hand Kisses, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Via running into a burning building like a lunatic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-02-07 17:03:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12845583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesentimentalist/pseuds/thesentimentalist
Summary: “'—a man who ran into a burning book shop.'Aziraphale stopped mid-sentence and turned towards the TV, his eyes drawn to the screen. With a sense of impending doom, Crowley followed his gaze. The news cut to a video of a burning building. Suddenly, a voice, a very familiar voice, started shouting out of frame.“Ngk.” Said Crowley.On the TV, the cameraperson turned to the source of the noise. A man in dark sunglasses and a suit was running up past the fire trucks. “That’s my friend’s shop!” he shouted.A fire fighter stepped in front of him, but the man pushed him aside. The fire fighter grabbed him by the shoulders, but he struggled to break free. Even with the sunglasses, it was easy to see the anguish on the man’s face. Crowley slid down in his seat and fought down the urge to scream. Aziraphale, for his part, was captivated by the little drama unfolding before them."Aziraphale finds out that Crowley ran into a burning building for him.





	No Greater Love

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Tell me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12236013) by [Chatote](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chatote/pseuds/Chatote). 



They were sitting on the couch in Crowley’s apartment, surrounded by empty wine bottles, talking about everything and nothing. After all, nothing had changed, except for everything.  
“When I said that our ‘sides’ were technical, I didn’t mean it literally.” Aziraphale said, running his finger around the rim of hid wine glass thoughtfully, “But after everything that’s happened, I can’t help but wonder . . .”  
“I’m not too keen on asking.” Crowley said, downing the contents of his glass in one go.  
“No, I suppose you aren’t dear.” said Aziraphale, grabbing a bottle from the table and moving to top off Crowley’s glass. “Quite frankly, neither am I.”  
As he leaned in—far closer than was necessary Crowley thought—a stray curl brushed delicately against Crowley’s chin, and he shuddered. He wondered if he was blushing. Oh well, he could always blame it on the wine.  
He watched Aziraphale lean back and put the bottle back on the table, apparently unaware of the inner turmoil he was causing. 6,000 years was a long, long, time to know a person. Things had gotten off to a rocky start, and they had spent years fighting before they had come to an uneasy truce. But Crowley wouldn’t have stuck around; wouldn’t have gone on so many walks in St. James Park; wouldn’t have held a tire iron in one hand and Aziraphale in the other as the world failed to come tumbling down around them, if he didn’t—  
“The plan has always been ineffable.” Aziraphale said, “That’s clear, now more than ever. But I must admit that I don’t relish being at loose ends like this.”  
He stared unseeingly into his glass, as Crowley stared at him, and saw everything.  
Looking at him now, after everything that had happened, Crowley felt a peculiar sensation in his chest cavity. It was a warmth without a flame, a pang without a wound, a weight—and yet—he felt as if he were about to float away. A little like embarrassment, a little like pain, and a lot like panic—but it was far to pleasant to be any of those things.  
By necessity Crowley had gotten to know humanity pretty well. After all these years he like to think he knew all the gears that make the human mind tick. Except for one. For all that people wrote about it, for all that Crowley read about it, it was a mystery to him. But now he couldn’t help but wondering if this was—  
“Is the world going to end again?” Aziraphale said softly, almost to himself, “Entropy would suggest that it has to, eventually, but how? Will we have to go through the whole anti-Christ song and dance again, or will the end come in some new form?  
Crowley swallowed nervously and said:  
“I’m trying not to think about it.”  
He was being flippant, but Aziraphale nodded, frowning, and said:  
“Maybe that’s for the best. There’s no use in worrying about it. But I, I mean what are we supposed to do now? For 6,000 years we’ve wiled and thwarted, and now—now, what is the purpose of—“  
The news anchor cut into his grim monologue:  
“—a man who ran into a burning book shop.”  
Aziraphale stopped mid-sentence and turned towards the TV, his eyes drawn to the screen. With a sense of impending doom, Crowley followed his gaze.  
The news cut to a video of a burning building. Suddenly, a voice, a very familiar voice, started shouting out of frame.  
“Ngk.” Said Crowley.  
On the TV, the cameraperson turned to the source of the noise. A man in dark sunglasses and a suit was running up past the fire trucks. “That’s my friend’s shop!” he shouted.  
A fire fighter stepped in front of him, but the man pushed him aside. The fire fighter grabbed him by the shoulders, but he struggled to break free. Even with the sunglasses, it was easy to see the anguish on his face.  
Crowley slid down in his seat and fought down the urge to scream. Aziraphale, for his part, was captivated by the little drama unfolding before them.  
“Aziraphale!” the man shouted, breaking free from the fire fighter’s grip and rushing into the blaze.  
Crowley put his head in his hands and groaned.  
“The identity of the man is still unknown, and so far no remains have been found.”  
Then there was silence.[1] After a moment, Crowley gathered his courage and peered out from between his fingers. Aziraphale was staring at him, his mouth open slightly.  
“You ran into a burning building.” Aziraphale said.  
It wasn’t a question, so Crowley choose not to dignify it with an answer.  
“Why?” Aziraphale asked in a tone of breathless amazement and total bewilderment.  
Crowley’s heart dropped into his stomach, his stomach crawled into his throat, and his face burned. He couldn’t avoid it now. Crowley lied, but not to himself.  
“I—I came to find you and, well . . .”  
He’d had a very stressful day. He hadn’t slept in at least 72 hours. He hadn’t been thinking straight. He hadn’t been thinking at all.  
“Yes . . ?”  
“And when I saw the fire, I had to . . .”  
A man of their mutual acquaintance once said that fire triggers the overpowering impulse to rush to the one thing we value most. Aziraphale knew. He had to know.  
“To what?” asked Aziraphale.  
It was obvious, so painfully obvious.  
“To save you.” whispered Crowley, looking down, unable to meet Aziraphale’s eyes.  
How could he not? What else would make someone run into a burning building for a being who cannot die?  
There was another long pause, and then Aziraphale said “Crowley.”  
Crowley clenched his fists at his sides, took a deep breath, and looked up. Aziraphale was looking back at him. The corners of his mouth were twitching uncontrollably in a futile effort to keep from grinning, but his eyes—his eyes were soft and shining.  
“You know—“, and then Aziraphale chuckled a touch hysterically, “You know we can’t die.”  
Crowley’s face burned with embarrassment.  
“I was under a lot of stress.” Crowley groaned, bringing one hand up to hide his face, “I. I may have forgotten.”  
Suddenly, he felt something touch his hand. He opened his eyes and looked down. Aziraphale had covered the hand resting at Crowley’s side with his own. Crowley looked up at him. There was a tear running down his cheek, but he was smiling as he wiped it away, shoulders shaking with paroxysms of silent laughter. He squeezed Crowley’s hand—Crowley forgot how to breathe—raised it to his lips, and kissed his knuckles, smiling beatifically all the while.  
“I love you too.” 

 

[1]The TV, sensing the tension in the room, had been courteous enough to turn itself off. Not that anyone noticed.


End file.
